


I Cannot Rest

by notanightlight



Series: Linger On [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Death Is Never The End In Comics, Dick Grayson is Robin, Gen, Grief/Mourning, I Didn't Choose The Angst life, Medical Procedures, Saddly This Really Can Be Considered Canon-Typical, Supernatural Elements, The Angst Life Chose Me, Trauma, i swear it gets better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2019-01-17 03:13:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12356271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notanightlight/pseuds/notanightlight
Summary: It was the worst day of Dick Grayson's young life.  It was the last day of his life.  But that doesn't mean it's the end of Dick Grayson.  He lingers on.





	I Cannot Rest

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Robin Year One, but takes place in its own universe.
> 
> Many thanks to my beta, Squickymuse! Without her cheerleading, this may not have happened.
> 
> Spoilers in the end notes.

 

Indescribable.

There was just no way to make any sense of the pain radiating throughout Dick’s body. A part of him was trying to catalogue his injuries the way Bruce taught him to, but his objectivity was swamped under the waves of pain, pain, pain!

His ribs! His ribs were searing his chest from the inside out, burning him in jagged shards of tempered heat as he drowned on dry ground. His skin felt like it was pulled too tight over the mass of agony he’d become, so tight he was surely going to rip at the seams to relieve the pressure now that he had no more strength left for screaming. He couldn't tell if the pain in his head was from the blows he had taken, or the task of trying to comprehend the sheer magnitude of the agony his battered body was experiencing.

The world outside of his personal envelope of pain was perceived in disjointed flashes; His bones being held in place by a pair of strong arms, frantic voices washing over his ears, a sudden change from the smell of smoggy city air to the sharp scent of antiseptics. And every time the pain finally started to blur at the edges, every time he started to drift into the unfeeling unknown, he was jolted back into awareness. He could have cried for the unfairness of it all; might've already been doing so for all he knew.

The torture seemed to drag on for an interminable amount of time until, between one instance and the next, it just stopped.

The pain ceased. His objectivity returned. Reality reinstated itself. And Dick found himself staring down at his own body.

He felt strangely detached from everything as he catalogued the visible injuries the same way he had in countless case studies during training. His right arm was bent at an unnatural angle, clearly broken in at least two places. Bruising and lacerations from blunt force trauma littered his chest, visible where his red tunic had been peeled back. Dark purples and bright reds stood out in stark contrast against the waxy pallor of his skin, and the hair on the left side of his head was matted with tacky blood.

His body was laid out on a medical table, a heart monitor attached to the finger of one ungloved hand and an IV inserted into the opposite arm. With the same sense of detachment, Dick noticed the wide gauge needle sticking out of his chest, to let air out of his chest cavity if he recalled his training on trauma medicine correctly. There was also a tube that must have been inserted to drain out pooling blood. One of his ribs had probably punctured a lung, he guessed.

It took him a second to realize that a woman was standing over his body. Her gloved fists were clenched tightly against the medical table and her head was hung low.

“Damn it,” she whispered. And with a jolt, Dick realized he knew her.

He hesitated a moment before asking, “Dr. Thompkins?”

But she didn't acknowledge him. She didn't even glance his way. Just picked up a clipboard laying nearby, jotted a time down on it, and left the room.

A sense of unnerving wrongness began seeping into Dick’s detachment as he was left alone with his own prone body.

“What…?” He asked the air, eyes sweeping over the room for clues.

A crash cart sat off to the side, and Dick took a moment to study it. He noticed that the defibrillator’s panels were out of their kit, and a bottle of epinephrine with a small puncture in its lid was set out.

 _‘They must have tried to restart my heart,’_ he thought. And finally, the implication of that slammed into him.

He whirled around to face the heart monitor, shaking his head in horror as the line on the screen stayed stubbornly flat despite the way he could feel his heart hammering away in his chest at a jackhammer pace.

“No, no, no, no, no…”

He spun back to the body on the table, lunging toward it in a panic.

“No! Come on! Wake up, dummy!” He shouted, “We gotta wake up! Please! Come on, we're just getting started! It can't end like this! Not now! Not now that we've got something worth living for again! Come on! Please! We can't —”

His hands passed through the body's shoulders as he reached out to shake it, and Dick jerked back, instinctively recoiling. Hot tears rolled freely down his face as he slid to the floor. He wrapped his arms tightly around himself and allowed himself to breakdown there on the clinic floor.

He almost didn't hear the sound of footsteps racing towards him as he cried, and he startled as the door was thrown open.

Bruce stood in the doorway, still in full costume. His cowl was pulled back, so there was nothing hiding the look of utter devastation on his face. For a second, Dick thought he was going to swoop in to gather Dick up in his arms and comfort him the way he always had in the past, but Bruce never even looked towards the corner of the room where Dick was crying.

“Dick…” he murmured, voice breaking on the name.

“I’m here, Bruce,” Dick choked out in response, but Bruce didn't react to his voice.

He crossed the room to the tiny body on the table and tenderly brushed the hair back from its forehead.

With a shaky breath, Bruce leaned over until his own forehead rested against the boy's brow.

“I'm so sorry, Dick. So sorry,” he whispered, audibly trying to hold back tears. “This never should have happened to you. Please, Dick, don't leave me. Don't—”

Whatever else Bruce planned to say was choked off by some emotion Dick couldn't name.

Dick couldn't help but sob harder.

“I'm still here, Bruce!” He managed, practically begging Bruce to hear him. “I'm right here!”

He ached to throw himself into Bruce's arms, to let himself be comforted the way he had been after countless nightmares, but the idea that he might pass straight through those arms was more terrible than he could bear to risk.

It was strange. He always thought you were supposed to find peace when you died. All Dick could see was devastation.

………………………

  
In the days that followed, Dick found himself at a loss. None of his preconceived notions about death were panning out. No Grim Reaper came to shepherd him to the afterlife. No bright light appeared for him to walk into. No long passed relatives came to greet him, which was the greatest disappointment of them all.

For a while he had raged against it all. He'd thrown shouting fits that disturbed absolutely no one, and cried to every deity he could think of. At times he could almost convince himself that it was a dream, or that he was in a coma like one of those soap opera stars, but as the days dragged on those fantasies became less likely.

Reality was bitter. His life was over, thanks to a madman with a baseball bat, and there was apparently no afterlife that wanted to take him.

He was just there. Lingering. Unable to do anything else but stay and bear witness to the ones he'd left behind.

And it was _painful!_

After that first night in the clinic, Dick never saw Bruce break down again, but his stoic grief was somehow even worse. It was like Bruce had turned into some kind of emotionless robot during the day, everything about him flat and hard. There was no sign of the dry humor or the patient warmth that Dick had come to expect from the man he considered family. And while every day that passed seemed to draw Bruce further and further into his shell, every night seemed to push Batman into greater recklessness.

The change in Batman was a wholly frightening thing to behold. He jumped into fights with brutal abandon, pulling no punches, and sparing no apparent thought for his own well being. On more than one occasion, Dick found himself shouting ineffectually at Batman for diving headfirst into some impulsive stunt that would have seen Dick benched for a week if he had tried to pull it.

It was like Bruce just didn't care anymore, and Dick was close to pulling his phantasmic hair out over the fear that Bruce was going to get himself killed and the frustration of not being able to do a thing about it!

He just felt so useless, floating out into the night after Bruce to witness the damage and then trailing him back to the cave to watch as Alfred treated his ever increasing collection of injuries.

Some partner Dick turned out to be. He had a feeling tonight would be even worse than usual, not that Dick could do anything about it. Today was already shaping up to be the worst one since the day he died.

Today was his funeral.

Dick was perched on a tree branch overlooking the Wayne family graveyard, staring morosely at the small crowd gathered to watch his body be lowered into its own little grave. It had been a closed casket affair.

Whoever said it was great to see your own funeral didn't have a clue what they were talking about.

Bruce and Alfred stood side by side, the perfect picture of solemn mourning, but Dick knew better. Just that morning while aimlessly drifting through the manor, he had come across Alfred openly weeping in the privacy of Dick’s room. The sight of steady, stalwart Alfred in tears had shaken Dick to his core.

Even now, the guilt ate at him from inside as he watched Bruce subtly run a hand over the the chemical burns hidden beneath the cuffs of his sleeves. The marks still lingering on as physical reminders of the acid Bruce had used to burn through his bindings in an attempt to get to Dick before Two-Face’s final blow. Reminders of a rescue attempt two seconds too slow.

Not that anyone in the public would guess that Two-Face had anything to do with the death of Bruce's ward. As far as the world knew, Dick had been killed in a kidnapping. The majority assumed it was the work of Zucco’s gang, in a gambit to hush up the one loose thread that could keep their imprisoned boss from making parole. Bruce never said anything to dissuade them. It made for a convenient explanation for Dick’s sudden demise less than two years after joining the Wayne household.

He sighed, plucking despondently at the strange dark fabric of the bodysuit he’d been clothed in ever since he died. He didn't know where this clothing had come from, but he supposed it was better than being stuck in the Robin suit he’d been murdered in.

A chittering noise distracted him from his morose thoughts, and he turned to find a squirrel perched on his branch. He gave it a glum look.

“Boo,” he told it, no heart put into his attempted haunting.

The squirrel just stared past him with its beady eyes and gave its tail a few twitches before scampering straight through him.

Dick hung his head.

“Don't even make a half-decent ghost,” he mumbled.

“That is yet to be decided.”

Dick’s head whipped up in shock at the unfamiliar voice. He had almost forgotten what it was like to have someone actually respond to the things he said.

He stared in awe at the figure of a tall, stately woman floating beside him. Her exact features were unclear, as if even though he was looking right at her he couldn't process what he was seeing.

The woman continued on, apparently taking no offense to his gaping. “The world is not as it should be, Richard Grayson. The balance has been disturbed.”

She turned to face the little ghost, and Dick found himself sitting up straighter on instinct.

“You can help restore it.”

“Ma’am?” He asked.

“You are meant to be a force of light to balance the darkness of this place. Your death has thrown that balance out of alignment and now the darkness threatens to consume itself.”

He glanced past her to the dark clad group of mourners still gathered at the gravesite.

“You're talking about Bruce, aren't you.”

“In part,” she confirmed, “but it goes beyond one man.”

He looked back at her, feeling the familiar frustration welling up inside of him again.

“I don't know what you think I can do. Nobody can hear me, or see me, or anything! I'm dead! I failed…”

“You may be dead, Richard Grayson, but that does not mean this is the end,” she replied, “If you so choose, I can grant you the ability to affect the world of the living in the name of preserving the balance between light and darkness.”

Dick squinted at her, trying to make out her features but still having no success.

“Who are you?” He asked.

“I am the keeper of the Scales of Balance and the master of Karma. Mankind knows me as Rama Kushna.”

Dick couldn't say he had focused very hard on religious studies, but he had no doubts that he was dealing in divine territory. Still, he knew better now than to accept a deal at face value.

“Not to be rude, ma’am, but what's the catch?”

Rama Kushna regarded the boy with a level look.

“If you choose to accept this responsibility, you will not be able to seek your eternal rest until your work in this world is complete,” she explained. “However, the choice is yours to make. Should you decide not to accept my offer, you may cross over to the Land of the Just Dead to reunite with your family and receive the peace you have earned, but you will have no contact with the land of the living.”

Dick could have wept at the idea. Finally getting to be with his mom and dad again and having this whole nightmare end sounded like a dream come true, but if he left…

He looked back to the gravesite. The crowd had mostly dispersed by that time, leaving just a handful of people still at the grave. He watched Commissioner Gordon rest a hand on Bruce's shoulder, saying something Dick couldn't hear before leading his daughter away.

Then it was just Bruce and Alfred left standing side by side in front of the grave, his grave, showing no sign of returning to the manor any time soon.

“Richard Grayson, have you come to a decision?” Rama Kushna asked from behind him.

From somewhere inside the depths of his overcoat, Alfred produced a thermos and a red mug Dick had favored. He watched as Alfred filled the mug to the brim with hot cocoa, before he kneeled to set it amongst the flowers on the grave. He remained kneeling for a long moment.

Bruce ran a hand over the chemical burns again, and Dick could have sworn he saw his hands shaking even as they returned to clenched fists at his sides.

Dick closed his eyes, taking a deep breath in and releasing it slowly as he pictured his parents’ faces, open and smiling. Then he turned back to Rama Kushna.

“Yes ma'am, I've made my decision.”

……………………………

  
That night Batman descended on Gotham City like an Old Testament plague. He swept through the alleys carried on a tide of on anguish and fury too intense to be separated from one another. The sounds of the city were underscored by the still raw memory of a dying boy's pained whimpers layered over the long lasting echoes of pearls clattering against the concrete.

Barely a month ago, he slung an arm around that boy's shoulders as he ruffled his hair and told him he was proud. Just a week ago, he carried that boy in his arms as he raced to the clinic with a young life hanging in the balance. And today, he watched that boy, _his_ boy, be lowered into the cold ground where Bruce could never catch him up in his arms again.

Bruce brought Dick into this dark world, shoved him right into the path of the most unsavory people Gotham could produce, and had the arrogance to think he could protect him from all of the evils they faced. And now that self-recrimination just fueled his underlying anger until he felt less of a human being and more of a vessel of vengeance.

It was reckless, he knew that. It was closer to punishment doled out than justice sought.

Bruce didn't give a damn.

He hurt in ways so tangled up and raw, that the only thing he could do with it was take it out on those who dared to threaten the safety of his streets.

It was so much simpler to be Batman right now, with a purpose and drive, than it was to be Bruce Wayne, rattling around the mansion and finding silences where he had come to expect laughter. He had never felt so empty. Staying in the mansion was unbearable, and there was no way he'd be able to manage it for a single day without the promise of nightfall and the call of the mission. He didn't know how Alfred could stand it.

He paused on the rooftop of an old brick high rise at the sound of conversation drifting up from the alley below. Well honed instincts insisting that trouble was about to ensue.

A group of men was gathered near the back entrance of a recently opened Mexican restaurant. Two men loitered closer to the alley’s entrance, doubtlessly acting as lookouts. Another was crouched at the restaurant’s door fussing with the lock.

Batman took a deep breath, picking up a faint but distinctive whiff of gasoline. Arson in progress.

His gaze caught on a unique tattoo of an Evil Eye on the back of one man’s neck. A name and file sprung directly to mind. Dan Harred; an enforcer for the Maroni family.

More than likely that he'd come across the consequences of a protection racket. The need to act was singing in his veins as he sized up the men below. Eight opponents in total; Harred, Lockpick, Lookout 1, Lookout 2, Beard, Ponytail, Bald, and Glasses. All of them had chosen a very bad night to cause trouble.

Batman launched himself over the side of the building, landing right on top of Glasses to take him out of the fight immediately before the others could even react. With the element of surprise gone, it quickly became a seven-on-one brawl. The tight area limited the effectiveness of any throwing weapons, but also made it nigh impossible for the mobsters to fire a gun without striking one of their own.

With a spin, Batman dodged a blow from Ponytail, redirecting his momentum to deliver a strike to Lookout 2 charging from behind. Lookout 2 fell back, clutching his chest as he wheezed for air, only for Lookout 1 to surge forward. Batman felt a heavy blow land on his shoulder as he focused on blocking a punch from Lookout 1, and kicked back in response. The feel of his foot connecting with a man's knee was followed by Ponytail’s pained cursing and the ringing of a metal pipe hitting the ground.

Batman grabbed Lookout 1’s arm as the man threw another punch. Ignoring the pain radiating from his shoulder, he tossed Lookout 1 back into Lookout 2 as the latter was just recovering his breath. That should give him enough time to refocus on the men deeper in the alley.

He turned, and immediately had to dodge a can of accelerant that Beard swung at his head. Further back, he could see Lockpick and Bald brandishing knives, but keeping their distance as Harred went for his gun behind them. It seemed Harred was willing to risk a shot, friendly fire be damned.

Batman tried to push toward Harred, but was forced back as another swing from Beard glanced his cheekbone, pain blossoming far too close to his eye for comfort. From behind him, he could hear the sounds of Lookouts 1 and 2 scrambling back to their feet.

Too many fronts to fight on anything but the defensive. Batman grit his teeth, wracking his brain for a way to turn this fight around fast.

Suddenly, Lockpick switched the grip on his knife, using the handle to deliver a swift strike to Bald’s temple. The man dropped like a sack of bricks, and Lockpick whirled to face Harred.

“The hell you doing, Jimmy?” Harred shouted, bringing up his gun. However, Lockpick, Jimmy, was faster, darting in to disarm Harred before the man could aim and fire.

Not one to waste an opportunity, Batman used the ensuing confusion to toss Beard into the alley wall, taking the man out of the fight.

He turned his focus to the Lookouts, ever aware of the sounds of the scuffle behind him as he engaged the two. Without having to worry about an attack from the rear, it was only a matter of moments before both Lookout 1 and Lookout 2 were laid out insensate on the alley floor. He turned to find Harred in a similar state as Jimmy the Lockpick delivered a knockout punch to Ponytail where the man sat still clutching his injured knee.

Batman studied Jimmy warily as the man heaved a sigh, running a hand over his forehead.

“Well that went better than expected,” the man said. “Let's get these guys ziptied while they're still out.”

There was something off about how comfortable this man was acting. He seemed completely unfazed by the presence of Gotham’s Dark Knight, his posture casual despite having turned on his compatriots only minutes before.

“You've got some ready, right?” Jimmy asked as he dug through his pockets. “‘Cause I don't think I've got anything like that on me… wait a minute!”

He produced a wire garrote from his back pocket and looked at it with unmasked dismay.

“Never mind. That's not gonna work,” he said, chucking it to the side carelessly.

Batman's eyes narrowed.

“You're not from the force,” Batman stated, “I know who all of their undercover officers are.”

He let the unspoken,  _“so what are you?”_ hang in the air between them.

Jimmy sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes darting to the side.

“It’s really kind of hard to believe who I actually am,” he admitted.

Batman just kept up his level scrutiny.

“Try me.”

Jimmy scuffed a shoe against the pavement, fidgeting like a child expecting a scolding.

“I’m, uh… I'm...” he swallowed, his gaze flitting over the unconscious men littering the alley before steeling himself to look Batman in the eye. “It's me, Batman. I'm Robin.”

Fury ignited in Batman's chest like kindling beneath a spark. He advanced on the wide-eyed crook without thinking, his hands clenched so hard his gloves creaked.

_“How dare you—”_

“I swear I’m not lying!” Jimmy protested, hands held up in surrender as he backed away from the furious vigilante. “You gotta believe me!”

_“—even think about—”_

“I can prove it! Promise!”

_“—saying that to—”_

Jimmy began whistling and Batman stopped dead in his tracks as the tune of ‘The Daring Young Man on the Flying Trapeze’ carried through the alley air.

Batman felt frozen to the spot.

“That makes no sense,” he rasped out, suddenly feeling like the wind had been knocked out of him.

The man took the opportunity to lower his left hand, leaving only the right still raised, before quoting an oath that had never before been uttered outside of the Batcave.

“I swear to fight against crime and corruption, and to never swerve from the path of righteousness.”

The solemn reverence in his expression seemed wildly out of place on Jimmy’s face as he pronounced the oath, and Bruce's heart constricted sharply.

“How?” He asked, voice barely more than a whisper as he searched for any resemblance between the twelve-year-old boy he had buried and the twenty-something man giving him a rueful smile as he stood before him. Something dangerously close to hope was stirring in his chest, some part of him that desperately wanted to believe that something of Dick still existed, no matter how impossible the circumstances.

“I'm still working out the details myself,” he admitted. “I really did… uh, die, but instead of passing on I just kind of… lingered. And then this goddess showed up and gave me the power to possess the living so I could protect the natural balance of light and dark.”

He ducked his head a bit, giving a helpless shrug.

“I’m not entirely sure what that means, but it really is me, ya know, in the spirit at least.”

The man offered Batman a charmingly abashed smile. It was a smile Bruce had seen dozens of times before on Dick’s face when he knew he was in trouble but was still trying to charm his way out of it.

“And… and I know this is a lot to ask you to accept. Especially after the mess I—”

However Dick planned to finish that sentence was totally forgotten as he was suddenly clutched in a tight embrace.

The height was all wrong, so was the angle, and the breadth of the shoulders encircled in the hug. But none of that mattered, because somehow Bruce actually got the chance to hug his boy, his _son_ , again. He cupped the back of his head with one hand, his glove muffling the prickly texture of Jimmy’s short cropped hair where there should have been Dick’s soft curls.

Bruce could feel the way Dick’s breath hitched before he was being hugged back just as fiercely. Unfamiliar hands clenched in his cape as Dick buried his borrowed face in the crook of Bruce's neck. And just for a moment, Dick allowed himself to break down in his father’s arms again.

Had anyone been passing on the street this late at night, they could have looked down the alley to see the strange sight of a mob henchman crying into Batman's shoulder while the Dark Knight rubbed a hand up and down his back in a soothing manner, various unconscious thugs scattered about their feet. But on this particular night the only witness to the unusual scene was the smoggy Gotham sky.

“You're _here_ ,” Bruce murmured, savoring the knowledge. “That's all that matters.”

Dick pulled back, rubbing the tears from Jimmy’s eyes like the child he was.

“I've been here the whole time,” Dick said with a sniffle. “I've been with you in the manor, and the cave, and out on the streets. ‘Cause we're still partners, right?”

There was something so fragile in the way Dick asked that final question that Bruce couldn't help but give his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

“Always,” he confirmed.

The relieved smile that spread over Jimmy's face was one hundred percent Dick Grayson.

“Then I’ll always be here when you need me” Dick replied. He cocked his head to one side in thought before continuing, “Although, when I saw you were just going to dive right in here without any backup, I did have to take a few minutes to possess a little old lady down the street so I could call in an anonymous tip to the police. Otherwise I would have possessed this guy at the start of the fight. Even a ghost can only be in one place at a time.”

He sighed, shaking his head.

“There's so much to explain, and so much I want to tell you, but we really do need to get these guys restrained before the cops show up.”

Bruce would have liked to just retreat to the rooftops to talk to Dick for hours, and just leave the mobsters where they lay, but his practical side told him the job needed to be finished. So he simply gave a nod of agreement.

“That was good thinking, Robin,” he said, retrieving some zip ties from his utility belt. He handed some over to Dick, who was practically beaming with pride through Jimmy’s face.

They set to work securing the unconscious men with practiced efficiency, but the task took longer than usual because Bruce couldn't help but look over at Dick every few seconds. He couldn't resist drinking in the sight of familiar movements despite the mismatched body.

“Hey, B,” Dick commented as he restrained Ponytail’s hands, “since I'm the ghost of Robin, does that make me a _poultry_ geist?”

The comment startled a laugh out of Bruce. He could honestly say he hadn't expected to laugh on the night his son was buried.

“I never thought I'd see the day I'd be this grateful to hear one of your puns,” he replied as he stood from securing the last man.

Dick gave him a self satisfied smirk before checking Jimmy's wristwatch.

“They’ll be here soon,” he said, “and you'll probably want to have this guy restrained with the others before they do.”

He held out his arms to give Bruce an easy angle to put the tie on. Bruce just stared at the offered wrists, unable to make himself tie up his boy like a common criminal, even if he was currently inhabiting the body of one.

Dick shook his wrists as if to say, ‘get on with it,’ but his voice was gentle as he said, “Come on, B. I can't possess this guy forever. Once he's all tied up I'll let him go.”

Bruce screwed up his resolve, and carefully secured the zip tie over Jimmy's wrists.

“I'm sorry,” he quietly confessed.

Dick seemed to understand that the apology wasn't about the zip tie. He caught one of Bruce's wrists between his two bound hands, finger tips just resting over the spot where he knew chemical burns lay beneath the glove’s dark fabric.

“You did everything you could, Batman. There's nothing to forgive,” he assured.

He swallowed, offering Bruce a slightly wobbly smile.

There was so much more Bruce needed to say, but the sound of sirens steadily increasing in volume meant he just didn't have much time.

“I should have saved you,” he insisted.

“You already did,” Dick replied. “Besides, I'm still here, even if you can't always see me, you can always count on your friendly Geist to be nearby.”

He let his hands drop and took a deep breath, visibly steeling himself.

“Alright, I've got to get out of this body, but I'll talk to you soon,” he said. “I promise.”

And with that Dick’s spirit was gone, and once again the only soul in Jimmy's body was Jimmy.

The lockpick jumped at the sight of the Dark Knight so near. His head whipped down to boggle at his bound wrists before snapping back up to gape at Batman.

“How the hell!?” He shrieked over the blaring of rapidly approaching police sirens. He made to take a step back and run, but Batman didn't give him a chance.

Without a word, Batman delivered a punch to Jimmy's face that left the criminal as insensate as the rest of his cohorts.

Barely a minute later police officers poured into the alleyway to find a pile of slowly rousing mob enforcers, tied up and ready for arrest with their various weapons sitting nearby amongst incriminating cans of gasoline.

Later, Batman would make an appearance at the GCPD headquarters to debrief the Commissioner, but for now he was content to watch the scene unfold from out of sight on a nearby rooftop.

And if Batman smiled when he felt a little gust of unseasonably cold air rustle the edge of his cape, only the restless dead was there to witness it.

 

The End.

**Author's Note:**

> Aside from Robin Year One, this also draws a little on Injustice, in which Dick Grayson becomes Deadman after his death. Sadly, I haven't managed to get my hands on either of these comics.
> 
> Rama Kushna: the deity who gives Boston Brand his powers so he can become Deadman and seek justice for his death.
> 
> If you enjoyed this, please leave me a little note!
> 
> It has been literally years since I last wrote Batfam so this is probably quite rusty. There's just been so many awesome writers in this fandom and so much fantastic fic, it got my creative juices flowing again! If you see anything glaring, please let me know!


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